


Build a Home

by EnglishLanguage



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Disorder, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Clu, In which Sam tries to be an adult, Other, Slice of Life, Tron is soft, and we see hints of Quorra being A Memelord, they're trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/pseuds/EnglishLanguage
Summary: No one ever told Sam that, one day, he’d work himself to tears over the stench in his fridge, a can of old-as-crap chicken broth, and some meat on the verge of spoiling.//Sam, Tron, and adult responsibilities.
Relationships: Sam Flynn/Tron
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	Build a Home

Quorra still isn’t home from her latest excursion—to some farmers’ market, this time; apparently, she got sucked into vegan food blogging—but Sam is starving and unwilling to wait any longer for dinner.

  
That’s his official story, if anyone asks.

  
And Quorra _will_ ask. She tends to craft plans like weapons, makes them sharp-edged and definitive, plants them in the earth like a flag and dares someone else to tell her what to do. As a consequence for taking control of dinner, Sam fully anticipates winding up on the business end of organic kale and a scathing lecture.

  
(From her nature, Quorra gets her aggression. From Clu, she gets her _hunger_ , and it’s tricky to distinguish between Quorra being Quorra and Quorra being drunk off her face with newfound independence.)

  
Sam heaves a sigh, wrestles an uncooperative stockpot out of an overstuffed drawer.

  
Quorra, Sam, Tron—they’re all still settling into this.

  
This strange coexistence, this too-peaceful, too-quiet domesticity that aches like confusion, trembles like an unsteady ceasefire, just… _this_.

  
That’s the unofficial story, the real one: regarding his anxiety, Sam is stuck in a sharp downward spiral. He’s still raw from what happened on the Grid, suffocating under the stress of taking care of two, traumatized programs. On top of everything, he has to either use or waste a hundred dollars’ worth of perishable food items, and he has to choose which within the next few days. 

  
No one ever told Sam that, one day, he’d work himself to tears over the stench in his fridge, a can of old-as-crap chicken broth, and some meat on the verge of spoiling. No one ever warned him, _hey, if you can’t keep track of your bananas long enough to stop them from self-liquefying, you probably aren’t qualified to keep track of your family._

  
“This is dumb.”

  
And it is. It’s such a small thing to freak out about. 

  
It takes Sam too long to hunt down the baby carrots. They’re in a crumpled plastic bag, carefully— _deliberately_ —stuffed into a back corner at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. Most likely, this is Quorra’s way of communicating that she tried carrots and hates them, and Sam should be grateful she didn’t cram them all down the garbage disposal for fun. 

  
The carrots, too, are getting soggy, giving off a damp smell. _Of course_. 

  
The corner of his jaw ticking with frustration, Sam tries to toss them onto the counter, and instead _cringes_. Watches the carrots skid into the sink, slam into a stack of bowls. Blinks against the harsh percussion that the bowls beat against the walls of the sink as they scatter.

  
“Dude, seriously?” Hot frustration sparks behind Sam’s eyes. He drags a slow hand up his face. “Come on-”

  
“Sam?”

  
Sam counts to five, straightening out his stiff scowl, before turning to Tron. There’s a ladder propped against the wall, connecting Sam's living room to the upper story of the house, and Tron hangs off its rungs, grip haphazard, looking more ruffled than usual. It's something about how his eyes open wide, unblinking, and about how dishevelled hair flops crooked over his forehead.

  
“I’m fine,” Sam reassures, and starts gesturing at the sink before deciding against trying to explain the situation. “I’m… yeah, that was kinduva loud noise. Sorry for startling you?”

  
“I wasn’t startled,” Tron denies, even as his shoulders twitch back against the phantom weight of two discs.

  
Sam doesn’t push. Instead, he shrugs, tries to change the topic on a dime without tripping over his own tongue. “Didn’t Quorra say she’d be back at five?”

  
“No.”

  
“Then when-”

  
“She didn’t specify,” Tron reminds him. (Which is just… so _convenient_.) Sam isn’t mad at Quorra. He isn’t—he’s just antsy, burning up, running on adrenaline that he doesn’t need, that his body pumps out even as it rubs his nerves raw. To remind himself of that, he scrubs a hand against the back of his neck, grips a handful of his hair, and pulls. 

  
The pain is clear, almost cold. He can breathe through the pain.

  
Tron would disagree. The program hesitates, takes an uncertain step off the ladder. “Sam, what’s wrong?”

  
Sam doesn’t know how to answer that. How is he supposed to fit a lifetime into his explanation? How can he look Tron in the eyes and admit that, yes, he’s been decaying for decades, so today, he doesn’t have the motivation to pick through a bag of old, runny carrots?

  
It’s just that, if he doesn’t complete the task and pull himself together, he’ll shut down.

  
Shut down because he’s choking on his own, unsolved issues, not because of the carrots specifically.

  
 _Right_.

  
“I’m making soup. Chicken noodle. Lora’s recipe,” he starts, drumming fingertips against the base of his skull. “Because there’s a metric ton of food going bad, and that would be a waste of money, and I know Quorra wanted to try something new for dinner tonight, but-”

  
“Sam, stop.” 

  
Biting his tongue, Sam stops. He thinks there’s some force of inertia involved in rambling, because the abrupt silence leaves him reeling, blinking through a wave of quivering lightheadedness.

  
“Sam,” Tron repeats, and the name catches on the ragged edge of Tron’s sigh, drags out long and hoarse, almost… heartbroken. _Sure_. Sam allows himself a soft snort at his own dramatics.

  
“What?” He screws his eyes shut, and now he can’t see the concern warping Tron’s face. And now everything else feels so much vivid; he reeks of the greasy Mexican he had for lunch, there’s cold sweat breaking out under his arms, stabbing down the curves of his shoulder blades. 

  
Sam opens his eyes again. Resists the urge to claw his way out of his own skin.

  
“Look,” he rasps, because there’s a void between them, and he has to fill it. Because he has to hide behind his words before Tron speaks and tears Sam apart by his scabbed seams. “I’m fine. This?” He shapes a vague gesture with his hand, indicates all of himself, all the strange, throbbing panic that surrounds him like fog. “I can deal with this. I don’t need to… I dunno. Talk about it. Whatever.”

  
“I wasn’t going to ask you to talk about it.” A muscle in Tron’s jaw twitches.

  
_That’s right._

  
On his shoulders, the program carries 1050 cycles’ worth of abuse and dehumanization, of being forced to wear a helmet as a muzzle, a gag. Some days, Tron’s mental scars split open, and the program doesn’t—can’t—talk. So Tron understands (better than anyone Sam knows) that the spoken word isn’t necessary for survival, that Sam doesn’t need to beat the Oxford English Dictionary against his issues to cope with them. That a heart-to-heart, sometimes, will break Sam more than it will ever heal him.

  
“Chicken soup,” Tron tries, and forgets the ‘noodle.’ The program cocks his head to the side in a sharp-angled motion. “What is required to compile it?”

  
There’s an easy answer to that.

  
The recipe is short, easy to memorize; Sam took a mental copy of it with him to college and might as well have worn it threadbare.

  
“Chicken stock,” Sam states, running with the distraction, and adds, “but I dunno if that’s still edible. I opened the can a year- No. Probably a year and a half ago.”

  
Tron steps forward, walking with his weight on his toes, as if ready to turn and sprint. And Sam has half a mind to order Tron to stop right there; programs and food are not compatible. He’s had enough of dismantled blenders, of confused programs taking bites out of raw eggs, putting startled fists through shrieking oven timers.

  
Tron slips into the kitchen, leans back against the counter. “What else?”

  
“Chicken. The rest of that rotisserie crap from Costco will do. Carrots, celery, onion, garlic. Oregano, bay leaves, canola oil…”

  
“Chicken,” Tron parrots, pulling open the fridge and locating the plastic container. The vegetable drawer slides open next, and Tron pulls out an onion, a bag of asparagus, and ziplock of garlic. The program stops, scowls, and replaces the asparagus with celery. “Carrots?”

  
Sam sighs. “They’re in the sink.” Tron fishes them out and sets them by the other ingredients.

  
On his way to the spice cabinet, Tron picks up Sam’s water bottle and presses it into his hands. “Drink,” he orders, and leaves no room for argument. Or for Sam’s brain to lose its grip on the idea, collapse in on itself, and short out. 

  
The metal body of the bottle feels too sleek, too cold, too _much_ against Sam’s hands—and his fingers are trembling, apparently. That’s new. 

  
“Users.”

  
“What is it?” Sam bites out.

  
“I-“ Tron clicks his tongue, squinting at the label on a plastic spice jar, then turning back toward the cabinet. “They all look the same.”

  
Sam almost laughs. “Green?”

  
“828c51. On average.” The program replaces the container and picks out another, emitting a soft sound of accomplishment. “I located the oregano.”

  
Sam braces his water bottle against his lips, steadying his grip on it. He breathes, deep and slow, and lets lukewarm water lap against his mouth, listens to his exhalations echo harsh against the inside of the bottle. It takes too long for him to finally swallow without feeling like the water will go down the wrong pipe and suffocate him. “Bay leaves should be behind the oregano,” he offers, returning his bottle to its place near the sink. 

  
There’s a cutting board already out on the counter that he’s been eyeing. It’s used, but Sam can’t see anything more harmful than bread crumbs scattered across its surface. The bag of carrots is straight-up slimy now, coated in sink water and the dissolved remains of toast. Sam tugs it open with clumsy fingers and dumps out the carrots; he has to try twice to get a grip on a utility knife and pull it out of its block. 

  
“I can do that, Sam.”

  
Sam tries to shake his head ‘no,’ ends up jerking his chin to the side and holding it there, muscles locking in his shoulders, nerves firing on a razor-sharp edge. His hands are unsteady, knife already on the verge of slipping, but he can handle it. He can keep a firm grip on the knife, tuck the fingers on his other hand beneath his palm, and go slow. “No. It's good; I can do it.”

  
Tron narrows his eyes. “I know you _can_. You don’t have to.”

  
Somehow, Tron’s words don’t sting. Don’t feel like criticism or distrust. Sam hands over the knife. 

  
Tron holds the blade delicately, flips it through his fingers in a complex maneuver—and Sam knows Tron is unparalleled with a disc in his hands, but a knife is a different weapon entirely, so his breath catches in his throat. And releases, shakily, when Tron solidifies his grip on the handle and slices into the onion.

  
Hesitantly.

  
On second thought (blinking at the jagged chunks of onion materializing beneath the knife), Sam is fairly certain this is the first time Tron has ever diced vegetables. _It’s ridiculous._ Sam should be taking care of Tron, not the other way around.

  
Tron’s eyes flick up to meet Sam’s, analyzing him, and the program’s mouth pulls into a tight frown. “Sam? What needs to go into the pot?”

  
“Hm?” He blinks, gathers up the fragments of his thoughts. “Chicken stuff. I’ll do that.” He walks to the stove, stumbles up against it, and upends the chicken stock into the pot before lighting the burner. 

  
It takes Tron a few minutes to hack his way through his vegetables. Sam turns the heat up to high, asks, “garlic and onions?”

  
Tron shrugs. “Done.” He slides the cutting board toward Sam, who scrapes the onions and garlic into his pot. 

  
To simplify things, the chicken is already shredded (mutilated) as a result of dinner a few days ago; Quorra prefers taking her food apart over eating it.

“Hope it hasn’t gone bad yet,” Sam mutters, adding the meat to the pot.

  
Bracing himself against the edge of the counter, Tron leans over the soup and inhales, testing the scent with his mouth open, like a cat. “It smells fine.”

  
“Scoot over.” Elbowing his way into Tron’s space, Sam adds salt, pepper. He reaches for the ladle and feels Tron carefully drape the length of his body over Sam’s back, hooking his jaw over Sam’s shoulder and curling hands around Sam’s hips. With a small grunt, Sam adjusts for the extra weight, lets himself deflate beneath it.

  
“Chin’s sharp,” he mentions, and Tron shifts his head to a more comfortable position. “Thanks.”

  
Tron grunts. _For what?_

  
Sam shrugs, the motion, slight, but there isn’t a centimeter of space between them, so he’s certain Tron can feel it. _For everything. For dealing with my nonsense. For not prying._

  
“Carrots and celery next,” Tron infers.

  
“Guess so,” Sam tosses over his shoulder, and Tron hums, exhaling warm breath that seems to scorch the sleeve covering Sam's shoulder.

  
When Sam leans to his side, reaching for the oregano, Tron clings to his shirt, moves with him, in an oddly symbiotic variant of synchronization. Implicit conversations pass through the heavy heat that plasters Sam’s shirt against his spine, through the muscles that twitch in Tron’s chest and abdomen and the brush of eyelashes against the side of Sam’s neck. 

  
In the mindless silence that settles between them, no words needed.

  
The panic is still there, kicking up against the sides of Sam’s stomach like unsettled water. But it’s less, now, anchored by Tron’s weight and by the fact that Sam is still functioning, getting things done, instead of staring down the refrigerator in a silent meltdown.

  
“What about Quorra?” He asks, voice going tight.

  
“She won’t care,” Tron murmurs. Moving again, the program resettles his face against the bare skin at the very crook of Sam’s neck, placing a kiss there.

  
“She wanted to try making dinner,” Sam denies, closing his eyes against the shiver—cold, but not unpleasant—that works its way up his spine. “She was excited.”

  
“She’ll understand, Sam,” Tron repeats, snaking his arms farther around Sam’s waist before snorting softly, mumbling a threatening “she’d better.”

  
Because this isn’t a one-way thing. Because Sam cares about Tron and Quorra both, and they care about him in return. They _know_ him. Sometimes, Sam loses sight of that.

  
(Sometimes, he compares his easier life to a genocide, to centuries of torture, and forgets that he’s also allowed to fall apart.)

  
“Okay,” Sam breathes. “Okay.”

  
The soup is boiling, starting to clog the kitchen with its scent. No ingredients wasted.

  
And everything is fine.


End file.
